Dirty work

In the office,

Mr Lloyd-Davis counts the money twice

before handing it over

in five dollar bills.

I stuff it in my pocket

and turn to go.

He whistles again.

‘I want you to sign this,’ he says,

holding up a slip of paper.

It’s an invoice

for my services.

‘Tax,’ Mr Lloyd-Davis says.

‘I’m making a claim for the bastard

defacing my window.’

I shrug and scrawl a name

across the dotted line.

It’s not my signature

but he seems satisfied.

When I’m at the door

he calls after me,

‘If you know the culprit

there’s another thirty dollars in it for you.’

I walk away without answering.

There’s all sorts of dirty work

I’ll do

and some I won’t.